Cold Limits
by Miri Fern
Summary: The madman who signed his name "Christ" sang gospel hymns on his way to a rendezvous with destiny. The madman's target: the serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer. Dahmer has been marked for death for some time now. He knows it, and welcomes it. He will not scream for help or put up a fight. But death is never the end here in the Twilight Zone.
1. Bath, Ohio, the summer of 1978

_"If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world."_  
― C.S. Lewis

* * *

HE noticed the bed first. His back had begun to grow used to the hard, shapeless prison mattress, but this was obviously different. Softer, more supportive. The sheets weren't thin and coarse, either, and the pillow wasn't flat as cardboard, and turning over didn't bring about the groaning of rusted springs.

That was enough to warrant opening his eyes. It was dark, very dark. He waited for his eyes to adjust, for silhouettes to form. The mundane shapes of toilet, sink, and shelf, the cold limits his existence had been reduced to.

But that wasn't the sight that greeted him. Oh, these things were familiar to him, even though they were blurred. He'd owned that dresser since he was a child. The chemistry set, a gift from Dad. Animal bones on the nearly-empty bookshelf. The weight-lifting set in the corner.

He sat up and fumbled for his glasses. They were there on the nightstand, where he had always kept them. Yet when he put them on, he was still hoping the image of his old bedroom would disappear, replaced by the gray, featureless walls of his cell.

Because that, at least, would have made sense.

The walls didn't recede, the furniture didn't change. There was no mistake about it. He was in the bedroom he had shared with his brother David for most of his teen years, in the house where he had finished high school, in the town of Bath, Ohio, circa the late seventies.

As if in a trance, he got out of bed and wandered down the hallway to the bathroom, where he had left the light on.

His reflection stared back at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. He'd put on weight in prison. Put on years, too. At thirty-four he looked at least ten years older. But the boy in the mirror was impossibly young and slender, his long blonde hair styled to fit the times. Only his eyes betrayed any sense of a future already lived, the blue irises darkened, the light behind them dimmed.

Was it possible he had dreamt it all?

Rushing back into the bedroom, he scrambled to get dressed. If he weren't so nervous, he might've laughed at the floral prints and the oversized collars. On his way to the front door he grabbed the car keys, the flashlight (they always kept it in that one drawer) and briefly glanced at the clock: _3:23 AM._

And then he burst out into the humid night air, alive with crickets and heady with ozone. His feet carried him down underneath the house, to the crawlspace, and his hands fumbled for the switch on the flashlight—

Nothing. He shone the beam on every corner, looking for blood splatters, but there were none.

His heart pounding more from dread than exertion, he clambered back up the slope. His father's car was in the driveway, just like it had been that night in 1978—

He pressed his face against the window, shining the flashlight inside. No bags. Just to be sure, he opened the door. No smell, either.

There was still the drainage pipe a few houses down. He broke into a run.

 _Please God don't let him be there—_

It was empty.

The beam trembled wildly. He was shaking so badly he would've dropped the flashlight, had he not fallen on his knees first, his back bowing and his sweat-covered hands coming together in his lap. He thanked God over and over again, sobs of relief wracking his frame.

It was a long time before he could muster himself up again. He staggered back to the house, shivering in spite of the summer warmth, and stood on the porch for several seconds, afraid to go back inside the house on Bath Road.

 _Frisky is gone._

The thought struck him at that moment, when the furtive fervor of the search had finally begun to fade. His dog had died— _would have died?_ —shortly after he joined the army.

He pinched himself, increasing the pressure until the pain nearly brought tears to his eyes. The summer heat didn't dissipate. He wasn't dreaming.

He glanced back at his father's car. The keys were still in his pocket.

Without a second thought, Jeff Dahmer got behind the wheel and sped away.


	2. A motel

His first thought was to go to his father.

If everything was as it should be, then Lionel was still staying at the motel. Jeff thought he remembered where it was, or at least the general area. He couldn't think of anyone else nearby whom he could rely upon.

He would have to explain everything. His father would want to know where David was, what their mother had done. And there was the matter of his missing dog, and the wild, wretched dream.

The car's radio blared, keeping him awake and alert. As if to dispel any remaining doubts that it was the summer of '78, he was treated to Andy Gibb, Heatwave, and Sweet.

 _"Love is like oxygen: you get too much, you get too high. Not enough, and you're gonna die. Love gets you high—"_

The motel's neon sign coughed and sputtered in the night sky. It was very late, or rather very early. He didn't want to impose on his father, but he saw no other option.

After he reached Lionel's room and tentatively knocked on the door, a few tense moments passed in silence. There was no one awake at this hour, and the parking lot was empty. He started second-guessing himself. Maybe he was at the wrong room, the wrong place even—he had no way of knowing for certain.

Then the door opened a crack, and a pair of tired blue eyes peered out.

"Jeff? What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you."

Confusion and surprise passed over Lionel's features. They had never really "talked" before. A little nervous, he undid the door's chain and let Jeff in.

The room was small and cramped with cheap furniture. An empty coffee mug sat on the table in the corner, where Jeff took a seat. Lionel turned on a lamp and perched on the edge of the bed. Though he was groggy and bedraggled, Jeff was struck by how young his father looked. In the nightmare he had seemed so much older, not only physically but emotionally wrung out.

"What's going on? What are you doing up this late?" Lionel asked, putting on his glasses.

"I don't really know how to explain it all," Jeff admitted quietly.

"Is it something to do with your mother? Is David okay?"

"He's fine..."

"What about you? Are you okay, Jeff?"

"No. I mean, I guess I am..." He crossed his arms over his chest and fell curiously silent. His thoughts were a tangled mess. He couldn't be sure what had happened and what was yet to come. His entire sense of time had been stripped down to before the nightmare— _reality_ —and the future his overactive imagination had invented as he slept.

"What's today's date?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered. Lionel's confusion crystallized to genuine alarm.

"How could you not know what day it is?"

"Just humor me. Please."

"June 18. It's a Sunday."

Jeff didn't realize he had been holding his breath until it escaped his lungs, along with the last vestiges of his fear.

"We should start going to church again."

That surprised his father. "Yes, I was planning on it now that the divorce is finalized. I suppose we could go together."

"Yeah." Before the conversation could lapse into silence, he quickly added, "Mom took David and left."

"What? When?"

"A couple weeks ago. She said she was afraid of you. She wanted me to go with her, but I stayed. There's no furniture left and the fridge is broken."

Lionel sighed. "I had a feeling she would do something like this. I'll call somebody in the morning and figure out where they are."

"That's all?"

"Look, I don't know what to tell you. It's very late, I haven't gotten much sleep, and I'm not thinking straight...She took David and left you all alone?"

"Yes..." Jeff felt weightless, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room and he was floating in space. For once, he hadn't been reduced to an afterthought.

"Well, you can stay here with me. You said the fridge is broken—what have you been eating, then?"

"Fast food. Um, when I took the car yesterday, did I say anything about—"

"Why didn't you tell me about all this then?"

"I wasn't thinking about it. Some very strange things have been happening lately and I don't know where I am or what I'm doing anymore."

Lionel's brow furrowed in concern. A confession was caught in Jeff's throat. He had his father's attention. If he told him now, perhaps he would be gentle.

"Dad?"

"What is it, son?"

He couldn't remember afterward what exactly he said. The revelation that your eldest son was a homosexual was shocking, but not earth-shattering. The fantasies were far more difficult to explain. He tried to soften the blow with assurances that he hadn't _done anything_ yet, but as he watched Lionel's expression darken and his gaze drop to the floor, he knew it was useless.

"You need help. Some kind of therapy. Maybe I should send you to a conversion camp," Lionel muttered. "They have all kinds of medications out now, too. I'm sure they can find you something."

"Dad, it's not going to just go away like that."

"I know!" Lionel exclaimed, then lowered his head into his hands. "Jesus Christ. My own son..."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Jeff. I know it isn't. But the Bible says—"

What was left of the floating sensation fell away, leaving him cold.

"I know what it says. Don't you realize what I'm saying? There's something wrong with me, and it goes much deeper than that. It's worse. It's... monstrous."

It was then that he realized the futility of it all. Lionel couldn't possibly comprehend the magnitude of what he was telling him. He could imagine Jeff gay, but not as a serial killer. It was too outlandish to him, too unbelievable—and so the rational, analytical scientist had ignored it. Perhaps he was right to do so. After all, it had only been a dream.

Jeff stood up and began to walk toward the door, his characteristic stiff-limbed slouching more pronounced than usual.

"Where are you going?"

"I can't stay here."

"You can't take my car, either. I told you you could stay."

On his way out, Jeff reached into his pocket and tossed the car keys onto the table.

"Where are you going to go with no car? Jeff!"

But Jeff had already closed the door. Lionel went outside, clad in only his robe, and called his son's name. There was no answer.


	3. A deserted road

He walked.

How long he walked, he didn't know. His mind was elsewhere. It was only when he realized he had no idea where he was that he stopped and tried to get his bearings.

There was nothing but wilderness on either side of him, trees and foliage for miles around. He'd passed the darkened stores and shadowy neighborhoods long ago, pondering over why he'd thought Lionel would understand. That sentiment now seemed a more distant dream than the nightmare he'd awoken from that morning.

 _Never was good at long-term planning,_ he thought glumly, reaching behind his glasses to rub his eyes. A headache was beginning to throb in his temples.

He looked around. The road was deserted. He could walk until he got to a road stop and call somebody, or find someone willing to help. Or try and hitchhike...

A brightening pair of headlights washed over his back, and a sleek black Pontiac drove past him, then pulled up on the side of the road just ahead. He watched as three figures got out of the vehicle. One was staggering, clearly drunk.

"Whatcha doing way out here, man?" one of them called out, walking toward him. He was the smallest of the three in terms of size, and sounded young.

"Car broke down," he lied.

"You're supposed to turn your flashers on and wait. Anyway, want a lift?"

"Depends on where you're going."

The kid glanced back at his companions. In the glow of the car's lights, Jeff finally got a good look at him. He was wearing a baseball jersey and looked only a little older than his brother David.

"Mike? Mike!"

"What?" the drunk replied.

"Where we going?"

"Fuckin' Chicago, man!"

The boy turned back to Jeff. "He says we're going to Chicago."

Before Jeff could reply, the third boy broke off from Mike and walked over. He was about eighteen, muscular, and strikingly handsome.

"My name's Jim. Where you headed?"

Jeff hesitated. "Milwaukee. My grandma's sick."

Grandma! Why hadn't he thought of her? And since her death on Christmas Eve had been part of the nightmare, here in the real world she was alive and well. He wished he'd gone to her in the first place.

Mike, smiling stupidly, had wandered over to join them. His long black hair was wild, and with the car lights shining from behind him, it looked like a crimson halo gone rogue.

Jim smirked. "Why don't you come with us, and we'll see about getting you to your grandma?"

Before he could answer, Jim reached out and grabbed his arm. Startled and wary, Jeff froze up.

Jim exchanged looks with Mike and the younger boy.

"Come on, now—don't be shy!"

They began to drag him toward the Pontiac. He resisted, but it was three against one. Even if he managed to break free, there was nowhere to go.

When they reached the car, they let go of him, but formed a semi-circle around the right side door, penning him in.

"Did you really think I was going to hear your little sob story and just let you have a free ride?" Jim said.

"I could pay you when I get there."

"We're not going all the way to Milwaukee. What's to stop you from forgetting about us as soon as you get there?"

"I promise I won't."

"That's not good enough!"

"Then I won't ride with you," Jeff said. He tried to squeeze his way out between Jim and Mike.

"Wait a fucking minute!" Jim took a step forward, blocking his way. "What's your name?"

"Jeff."

"Jeff what?"

"Jeff Dahmer."

"I'll tell you what, Jeff Dahmer. There's a way you can pay me back."

"I don't want—"

"Don't give me that, man." Jim's brow furrowed. "Fuck, how old are you? Fourteen?"

"I'm eighteen."

" _I'm eighteen and I like it_!" Mike slurred.

"God damn, you look just like a fuckin' kid. Just like a little boy. A baby." He hooked a finger on Jeff's belt. "Tell you what. I'll let you ride with us, if you get down on your knees and suck, baby."

" _Got a baby's brain and an old man's heart—took eighteen years to get this far!_ " Mike warbled.

Jeff forced himself to meet his gaze. "No."

"But I insist." Jim smiled and tugged him closer. His breath reeked of alcohol. Jeff pushed him away.

"Oh, now you start to man up. I could've mistaken you for a faggot!"

"I'm not..." There was a tremor in his voice. He hated how weak he sounded. These idiots were just like the jocks that had attacked him in high school. Bullies, nothing more.

"I don't believe you. I think you're a liar. I think you'd love it!"

"Not anymore."

No sooner had the words left his mouth, Jim swung his fists. The first hit Jeff's left eye, shattering his glasses; the second struck his nose. He fell back against the car door, stunned.

Through blurred vision, he saw Jim tear off his belt. Then the leather strap was around his throat.

"How's that feel? You like that? Is it just as good on the receiving end?"

Lightheaded from lack of air, Jeff managed to maneuver his body around and aimed a kick at Jim's gut. The squeezing pressure around his neck immediately loosened. He gasped, then broke into a coughing fit.

Mike and the other boy stood there watching the scuffle, their expressions blank, their gazes devoid of empathy.

Still coughing, Jeff managed to prop himself up against the car, wiping at the blood trickling over his lips and chin. His left eye was swollen shut.

"Not looking so good now, are you?" Jim growled. His fingers curled like claws, eager to get his hands on his prey.

Jeff's weakened voice was slurred through blood. "I don't wanna fight you."

" _But you gotta!"_

A punch to the stomach doubled Jeff over. He waited for more blows, but none came. Jim was waiting for him to get up, so he could knock him down again.

Mike started singing the rest of "I'm Eighteen", off-key and mumbling. Jeff figured he was his best bet. He started to rise, then swiveled to the side, elbowing Mike in the face as he flung himself into the gap between him and the car.

The other two boys immediately took up the chase.

Jeff staggered, but kept moving, fueled by adrenaline. Curses and insults rained down upon him, a constant reminder that they were right on his heels. There was no place for him to go.

No place, except nowhere.

Trees flew past him, bleary silhouettes. He didn't get far into the forest before he slipped and fell.

The back of his head struck a jutting root. Biting back a cry of pain, he rolled over and crawled on his belly, dirt mixing with the blood smeared on his hands.

His hand brushed something wet. Directly in front of him was a small pond surrounded by sickly green moss and wild mushrooms. He reached out, hoping to wash away some of the blood, but his hand came away muddy.

The woods were eerily quiet, devoid of even the calls of owls or the chirping of crickets. He was alone.

Then the water began to bubble, sending up foul-smelling fumes. Dark shapes writhed beneath the surface. One rose higher than the others, emerging like the putrid bloom of a poisonous plant.

It was a human figure, or as close to human as the slime could get. He wore a black cape like the leathery wings of a bat, and he was old as a pagan druid, his face like the rough brown bark of the trees. His thin white hair was matted with muck, and when he opened his sagging eyelids, his gaze was clouded by scummy cataracts.

The old man's cape opened, and mummified hands reached out, the palms covered in wispy hair.

" _All sin is theft_ ," he said. His voice was like dead leaves scattered by a twilight wind.

Jeff clambered to his feet and tried to run, but couldn't go more than a few steps before a hand wrapped around his ankle and began dragging him back across the muddy moss.

His screams were weak and only made him cough, his throat still raw from Jim's belt. When he felt the cold water seeping through his shoes, he thrashed.

"I didn't do it! Leave me alone!"

"You stole them!"

"No! It was all a—"

"Liar!"

Struggling was in vain. He was going to drown, consumed by the mire.

The water climbed steadily. His sobbing pleas faded, replaced by frantic gasps as the cold sucked away his body heat. He couldn't feel his legs anymore.

"Take it all back," he moaned. "Give it back to them. If I could..."

"An empty promise!" the old man sneered.

His neck was wreathed in freezing slime, making even the hoarsest of whispers inaudible.

"I would... I would..."


	4. A truck stop

A light was shining in his eyes. Vaguely, he could see two blurred faces, pale and ghastly in the stark white glow.

"No dilation," a man's voice said. "He doesn't have a concussion, I give you that."

"We should still take him to the hospital."

"No can do, missy. You'll find there are no hospitals anywhere around here. Most you'll get are gas stations and the occasional middle-a-nowhere diner."

"Well, we can't just leave him here!"

"I never said anything about leaving him here. Tell you what, we'll take him to the truck, get to the nearest stop, and then I'll come back for you a little later, after I run a few errands."

"Errands?"

"Just a few. I'll come back, I promise. And we'll go from there. Get it?"

"Got it."

"Good."

The next thing he knew, he was sitting in a stranger's car, speeding down the dusky road at dawn. His injuries soon caught up with him, and he groaned in pain.

"Hang in there just little while longer, okay?" It was the same woman who had been talking before.

The vehicle came to a stop in a large, sparsely populated parking lot. Wrapping her arms around him, she ushered him out of the passenger door and into the building. Behind them, he heard tires rolling away.

Through his one good eye, he could make out the familiar decorations of a typical diner, including a neon jukebox glimmering in the corner. His rescuer deposited him at a cherry-red booth, then disappeared around the corner.

His face was a throbbing mass of pain. Moreover, he was beginning to feel incredibly embarrassed about the whole ordeal. Things would have been better if he'd just stayed home and forgotten all about the stupid nightmare...

The woman returned with a handful of paper towels and a styrofoam cup full of ice. He watched her dump a few chunks of ice on top of a rag and wrap them up. Then she pressed the makeshift ice pack to the side of his face. He winced.

"Hold it yourself, then," she said, and began dabbing at the dried blood from his nose with the wet towels.

"My glasses," he croaked. "Where are my glasses?"

"He took them. Martin, I mean. He'll be back soon."

She was young, maybe a couple years younger than him. Her long dark hair was feathered and she had large, almond-shaped blue eyes. While he stared at her bell-bottom jeans, a sleepwalking employee put a quarter in the jukebox behind her, and Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain" began playing from a speaker somewhere. The normalcy of the scene didn't jive with being dragged into a freezing pond by a twisted old man in a cape. He was beginning to wonder whether or not he was losing his mind.

"...though I'm almost afraid to ask," she said.

"What?"

"I was asking what happened to you?"

He shrugged. "Some guys came after me."

"What did they want?"

"I don't know."

She frowned, but didn't say what she was thinking. With his other hand he took a piece of ice from the cup and stuck it in his mouth. It melted instantly. He thought of the swimming pool he played in as a child, and of the pond behind the house in Bath, and the whirlpool in the prison where he'd been baptized. All in another lifetime, it seemed.

"Oh, I didn't even think to ask. Do you want something to drink or eat?"

"I don't have any money."

"I can pay, don't worry. Besides, I'm hungry too."

So he let her buy them both breakfast.

"Where are you going?" she asked, nibbling on toast.

"I'm not sure."

"Then there must be a place where you could go. Like your family's house, or a friend's place."

"I don't have friends."

"What, you don't talk to people?"

"Not really."

"Well, no wonder. You've got to talk to people to make friends. And who knows—maybe you'll open up new worlds for them."

"I can't open up new worlds for anyone. Mine seems like it's completely collapsed in on itself."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise, then furrowed. "That's weird."

"Not really."

"No, I mean..." She shook her head and smiled awkwardly. "I had this dream not too long ago where I was exchanging letters with somebody. They wrote exactly what you just said." She scrutinized his face. "Have we met before?"

He made an effort to appear uninterested. "Besides in your dream?"

"They say that everyone we see in our dreams is someone we've already met before, even if we only saw them in passing, like sitting in front of you on the bus, or standing next in line at the grocery store. So maybe we have met, we just don't know it. What's your name?"

"Jeff."

Her smile wavered. "My name's Evelyn."

Jeff's stomach flip-flopped. How many letters had he pounded out on the prison's word processor to _Dear Evelyn, my Beautiful One_ , hoping for money and books and magazine subscriptions? And he had said that his world had collapsed—he remembered typing it, remembered telling her he was depressed but yes, she should take her son to the Chicago Aquarium... The question was, did _she_ remember?

"It really was a crazy dream. I had a son to look after, and I was writing letters to a man I had never even met..." She ran her thumb across her lower lip, deep in thought. "I don't know. Maybe it's just a coincidence."

She stood up. On instinct, he grabbed her wrist with his free hand.

"I'm just going to the bathroom," she said.

"...Okay."

He let go.

Jeff stared down at the scraps of their meal. Morning light had begun to stream through the open windows of the diner, the color of fire.

A white pickup truck parked out front. He couldn't see the driver's face through the blinding sunlight, but he watched as they walked through the glass doors.

It was a man wearing tattered jeans, an army jacket, and a red baseball cap. He was tall and slim, with indistinct, androgynous features. His age could've been anywhere from thirty to fifty five, his eyes any color from gray to black. But he had an energetic walk, almost with a spring in his step.

"Here's our fugitive!" the stranger declared. It was the same deep voice he'd heard earlier, belonging to the one who had shone a light in his eyes—the one Evelyn had called Martin.

"Fugitive?"

"Gotta be, with your face all busted up like that. Did you dig your way out of Alcatraz with a spoon from the mess hall?"

He went over to the booth and pulled away the makeshift ice pack (by then little more than a sopping rag). "Miracles still happen, I see." Then he turned to the drowsy employee absentmindedly wiping down the counter. "You might wanna check your water supply."

Jeff touched his eyelid. It was cool, damp—and no longer swollen. His fingers drifted to his nose, feeling for bruising or breaks in the cartilage, but even the dull ache had all but disappeared.

"How..."

"Like I said, the water lines here must be tapping into the Fountain of Youth," Martin said with a shrug. "A shame about your glasses. I believe these are exactly the same, though." From his breast pocket he pulled out an undamaged pair of aviators.

Flabbergasted, Jeff took the new glasses and put them on. His vision cleared immediately.

"How did you get these?"

"I took yours to the optician and asked for another pair."

"I-I don't have any money—"

"That's alright. You not being able to see properly won't do any good. Say, are you headed to Chicago?"

"Chicago?"

"Where I and the young lady are headed. And probably you, too, if I can size anybody up properly. What's your name?"

"Jeff. And I'm going to Milwaukee."

"Well, Chicago's on the way. I can get you there, then put you on a train to Milwaukee. How's that sound, Jeff?"

He shook his head. He wasn't falling for that one again.

"I suppose I owe you an explanation." Martin slid into the booth across from him. "We saw Jim, Mike, and Sam running to their car. I know they're ah, _troublemakers_ from past experience, so I figured something was up. Pulled over, got Evelyn to help me look, and we found you way out in the woods. I could tell you weren't too badly injured, but wasn't about to just leave you there, so I carried you back to the truck and dropped you and her off here."

"Thanks." Jeff dropped his eyes, staring down into the styrofoam cup. All the ice had melted.

"Not much of a talker, are you? But I'll bet you gave Evie an earful—say, here she is!"

Evelyn had returned from the bathroom. When she saw Martin, her face brightened.

"I was wondering when you'd get here."

"I had to pick up some supplies," he said with a wink. "Have you gotten him to talk?"

"He said he was attacked." She turned to Jeff. "What were you doing out there alone, anyway?"

"I don't remember," he lied.

Martin shrugged. "He was caught by my favorite trio. Gutsy little punks. They could've snatched him right from his house, you know."

"They said they were going to Chicago."

"Yeah, that's their usual haunt. But you needn't worry. I can get you through the Windy City safe and sound. You ever been to Chicago before?"

"In my dreams."

"Well, it's not half as nice as that."

Jeff cast a furtive glance at Martin. Something about his eyes reminded him of Neil. Of all the friends who had faded in and out of his life, Neil was the closest thing he had to a best friend.

"Are you trying to get him to go to Chicago with us?" Evelyn asked.

"He's on his way to Milwaukee, and since that's half the route... Can you think of a better way of getting there, Jeff? You've got no money, no car. You've got your glasses thanks to me, but that's about it."

"Don't patronize him, Marty. He doesn't have to go with us if he doesn't want to."

Jeff rubbed his palms over his knees. "You have an extra seat?"

"Certainly. And you wouldn't begrudge Evelyn traveling with us, would you?" That earned a swat on the shoulder from her.

 _Evelyn_. The name stood out in his mind's eye, black ink on cheap yellow paper. She'd sent him his Bible, no doubt hoping to open up new worlds for him.

He shrugged, feigning indifference.

"That's no answer. You do have a choice, I was just exaggerating earlier. You could get a bus ticket here and go just about anywhere. You come with us, though, you can't change your mind—it's either Milwaukee or bust."

There was nothing to go back to in Ohio. He had no mother, no father, no brother to turn to for help. In that moment, he saw only one logical answer.

"I'll go."

"It's settled, then!" Martin rubbed his hands together. "Give me a chance to refuel, and we'll be on our way."


	5. An abandoned barn

The white truck Martin drove wasn't exactly clean, but there were no stains of unknown origin or bothersome odors. Jeff was sandwiched between Martin and Evelyn, with the air vent and the radio blasting directly in his face.

"Hey, is the music bothering you?"

"I don't mind..."

Martin turned the volume down anyway. Van Halen's "Runnin' With the Devil" faded to a muffled hum.

"Today is Sunday, isn't it?" Evelyn asked, turning her face away from the passing scenery.

"Yeah," Jeff answered. A rosary was strung up around the rearview mirror, the crucifix hanging down and the wooden beads softly clinking together.

"Do you go to church, Jeff?"

"Uh..." At eighteen, he hadn't been to church since he was six years old. At thirty-four, he never missed a sermon.

Martin laughed. "What does that mean?"

"It's hard to explain."

"Well, let's simplify it, then—did you go to church last Sunday?"

It took him several moments to answer. His memory was split—in some ways, he felt like two different people inhabiting the same body.

"Yeah. I just don't remember what the sermon was about."

But he knew he had underlined _1 Chronicles 28:9_ in his Bible.

"Which church do you go to?" Evelyn asked, her blue eyes drawn to him with interest.

"Church of Christ."

"So do I!"

"I'm carrying a brother and sister, then," Martin said, his eyes on the road.

Evelyn smiled. "I never had a brother before. Do you have any siblings, Jeff?"

"A younger brother."

"I've got an older sister. We get along pretty well, though I wouldn't say she's my best friend or anything. Are you and your brother close?"

"He's six years younger than me."

"Oh. How old are you?"

"Eighteen, I think."

Martin snorted. "You think?"

"I must be eighteen," Jeff mumbled, looking down at his hands. His nails were worn down to a nub.

"I haven't got any siblings," Martin interjected with a grin.

"What about your son?"

Evelyn looked up. "Huh?"

"You said you had a son," Jeff continued.

"Oh, no. I'm only seventeen. That was just in the dream I told you about."

"Were you married in the dream?"

"I don't remember. Why are you asking?"

He shrugged. "Just wondering."

Martin turned the wheel. "I bet you're also wondering how we came to be traveling together."

Jeff didn't particularly care, but he didn't say anything.

"It's a long story," Evelyn muttered, running a hand through her hair. Her expression was distracted, like something was bothering her.

"And it's a long drive. Might as well tell the tale."

She lowered her hand slowly, trailing it through her hair, then dropped it into her lap. "I woke up one morning with this urge to leave. No destination, just that I needed to go. So I got in the car and started driving. I figured I'd go to Chicago. But then my car broke down, and that's when he showed up."

"And it turned out that I just so happened to be on my way to Chicago too," Martin added.

"You never did tell me why," she said, frowning.

"Business trip. Deliveries and such. You might say I'm a courier."

"Why Chicago?" Jeff asked, his brow furrowing.

"Um, well—it just seemed like a good idea, I guess," she replied, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Why are you going to Milwaukee?"

"To see my grandma."

"I thought you said you didn't have anywhere to go."

"I lied."

"So all that stuff you said about not having any family or friends was a bunch of bunk?"

"My grandma's different."

"More like your mother than your own mom?"

"There's nothing wrong with my mother."

Evelyn's voice softened. "Does she know where you are?"

He imagined Joyce worrying about him. Her bouts of illness and nervous fits tended to be brought on by stress. But she still had her favorite son David, and if Lionel hadn't reached her yet...

"She probably doesn't even know I'm gone."

The silence that followed was pierced by Martin putting the turn signal on. Evelyn leaned her head back against the seat. Her blue eyes were melancholic.

"What's your grandma like?"

"Well, she's very kind, sweet, loving. I guess you'd call her the perfect grandmother."

When he showed up at her doorstep, unannounced and uncalled for, would she even accept him? What would he do if she didn't want him?

"She sounds wonderful."

Martin began fiddling with the radio dials again, changing the station. The conversation had died out, but Jeff didn't want to talk anymore. He had lapsed into private musings, lost in his own little world.

His grandfather had died a few days after he turned eleven. He remembered Lionel telling him about it, and reminiscing about the days when they had all lived together in West Allis. Jeff had been only a baby then, a baby whose mother wouldn't allow him to be touched for fear of germs. She wouldn't even touch him herself, except to change his diaper or pose for a photo...

" _And as I lost control, I swore I'd sell my soul for one love, who would sing my song—_ "

Jeff opened his eyes. "What's that?"

" _One love, who would sing my song,_ " the radio crooned, accompanied by a lonely piano, " _and lay beside me while we dream..._ "

"What's that song?" he repeated, louder.

"The jockey will tell us in a minute."

" _All my dreams are lost, and I can't sleep... and sleep alone could ease my mind..._ "

"It's a pretty melody," Evelyn said. "But the lyrics are a little strange..."

"Not that anybody cares about lyrics anymore," Martin muttered glumly.

The music faded away, and the DJ informed them that it was "Faust", a song from a movie he didn't remember, sung by someone he had never heard of, and written, quite naturally, by Paul Williams.

"Didn't he also write a song for the Carpenters?" Evelyn asked. "It was that one they always play at weddings..."

Jeff looked out the window. An endless expanse of trees surrounded them, occasionally broken by overgrown farmers' fields. The road they traveled was dirt and dusty gravel, and the sky was beginning to darken. He figured he'd nodded off and slept through most of the day, though he felt exhausted.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Podunk, or thereabouts," Martin replied cheerfully. "Thirsty?"

"What?"

"Are you thirsty?"

"Yeah."

Martin reached behind his seat and pulled out a plastic water bottle. Jeff would have preferred something stronger, but he took what was offered. The water ran cool against his throat, invigorating as a mountain spring.

"You really were thirsty," Martin remarked. In less than a minute, Jeff had drained the entire bottle.

"Where are we?"

"You asked that already," Evelyn remarked. Her brow furrowed when she glanced at him. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Just a headache."

"Probably car sickness. I'll be sure to pull over the moment we reach a stopping point," Martin promised.

"You don't have to do that. I'll be okay—"

Behind the truck, an engine revved. A car sped around them, kicking up gravel that pinged off the windshield.

Martin leaned forward, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. "You two ever see _Smokey and the Bandit_?"

"Of course."

"The Bandit drove a black Pontiac Firebird Trans Am. Just in case you wanted to know what kind of car those brats who hit you were driving, Jeff."

"Are they following us?" Evelyn asked, alarmed.

"Probably been tailing him ever since we took him out of the woods. They're very persistent—like rats."

A beer bottle went flying out the back of the black car, shattering against the hood with a loud _crack_! Martin swerved out of their way.

Jeff clutched his head. With the jerking movement of the truck, the dull ache in his temples mutated into an excruciating pounding.

Martin pulled over in one of the fields. Every rock and mound of dirt pierced like a knife through Jeff's brain. By the time they stopped, he was moaning in pain.

He was too out of it to protest when Martin and Evelyn pulled him out of the truck. Once he was on solid ground, he wrenched himself out of their grasp.

"I told you, I'm fine!"

"Right—if you're fine, walk from here to there and back again." Martin pointed to a an old barn that loomed before them like a forgotten ruin.

Jeff began walking toward it. After only a few steps, his started to feel dizzy. He stopped and tried to regain his balance, but with his head throbbing, it was no use.

"Well, that settles it," Martin said. "We're stopping here for the night."

He walked over to the faded door of the barn.

Evelyn's eyes widened. "We're staying the night in _there_?"

"Where else?"

"But why not keep going until we get to a town or a motel?"

"It would take too long. We've just got to make do with what we've got."

The structure was still intact, albeit caked in dust and grime. Martin looked around and, apparently satisfied that it wouldn't come tumbling down at any minute, he turned back to his two charges.

"Now, I'm going to go check some things—"

"Great, so now you're leaving us here?!" Evelyn snapped. Her voice grated more from fear than indignation.

"Only for a few minutes. I want to be ready for anything."

"If they're following us, we should leave!"

"And keep going until we have no choice but to stop and confront them? I'd rather we face them on our own terms."

"We shouldn't have to face them at all!"

They were silenced by a loud thud. While they argued, Jeff had lost his balance and fell beside an old stall door.

His hands slipped against filthy, rotten wood, fumbling for purchase, before he felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist and drag him to his feet again.

"Jeff? You okay?"

Jeff didn't respond. Martin lowered him onto the floor again, where he shut his eyes and clutched his head in his hands.

"I've got stuff in the truck I don't want getting lost or stolen," Martin said. "Stay here with him, Evie."

"But—" Evelyn began to protest, then stopped herself.

The old door creaked as Martin went out.

"Maybe you have a concussion after all," Evelyn said, kneeling on the ground beside Jeff. "I tried to get him to take you to the hospital, but he insisted..."

She put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. He hated feeling helpless, forced to rely on the kindness of strangers. It was enough that they were helping him get away—he didn't want their attentions or their pity.

Martin returned with a pair of rolled up flannel blankets tucked under either arm. He handed one to each of them. They were thick, designed to weather the harsh midwestern winter.

"Aren't these a bit heavy for June?" Evelyn asked.

"It gets chilly around here at night," Martin replied. "How's that headache?"

Jeff grimaced. "I just need to rest a little while."

"Fine by me." He glanced at Evelyn. "I'd ask you to help me unpack, but I'd rather you kept an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't start bleeding from the ears or something."

She sighed and changed into a more comfortable position, with her legs stretched out in front of her.

The next several minutes were a monotonous routine as Martin walked in and out of the barn, bringing in duffel bags and cardboard boxes. He whistled as he worked, as if the job was light and they had nothing to worry about.

Unraveling the blanket so he could lie down, Jeff's eyelids soon grew heavy. He closed them for only a moment, and suddenly he was back in the house on Bath Road.

It was morning, and he was sitting on the couch in the living room, surrounded by empty cans of beer. Everything was as it should be—he'd simply fallen asleep while watching TV.

Frisky was there, comforting as an old friend. He smiled when she meandered over, rickety and sickly in old age, to lick his outstretched hand.

And someone else was there, too.

He picked up an unopened can of beer and clutched it tightly, his eyes glued to the screen, trying to ignore the presence. It gnawed at him from the inside, a needling knowledge.

The memory was still raw. That night in Ohio, _that one impulsive night_ , when he had picked somebody up off the road, taken them back to the house, all in a vain hope. What had he expected from a stranger, a normal person who had no idea what lurked behind blue eyes—

 _It was only a nightmare!_ But it had been horrific. Unforgivable. He knew it, sensed it, and yet he couldn't fathom the depths of what he had done. His conscience was either too atrophied to stop him, or he hadn't been born with one.

He stood up, and the hand that clutched the can began to quiver. Without a conscience, there was nothing to him. He was flotsam bobbing in the ocean, a leaf on the aimless wind, transparent and rotting. Soon he would be dust. Ashes. Meaningless.

His heart pounding, he jolted awake.

"Martin?" he called, his voice a thin whisper. "Evelyn?"

There was no answer from the pitch black. He struggled to stand. His legs wobbled, then buckled, forcing him to his knees. Fingers knotted in his hair. His skull felt as if it would split open.

A flashlight beam shone through the cracks in the door.

"Evelyn!"

She burst through the door and hurried past the empty stalls. She was dressed in a white nightgown, loose and fluttering against her bare legs.

"It's okay—I just went to change. What's the matter?"

"I can't sleep."

"That's because you slept in the car." She paused, her brow furrowing. "You look tired. I'm sure if you just relax, it'll come to you."

"I can't," he repeated.

She took the other blanket and spread it on the floor next to him, scattering dirt, hay, and other debris. "Why not?"

"I keep having nightmares."

The flashlight clicked off as she laid down and folded the rest of the blanket over her. Tucking one arm underneath her head, she looked over at him. There was a world of meaning in her eyes.

"I'm not surprised."

His breath caught in his throat. It was what he suspected, what he feared was true, and yet it still stunned him.

Afraid to meet her eyes, he rolled over on his back and stared up at the ceiling. Holes and cracks like wounds in the roof exposed a starry night sky.

"Am I dying?" he whispered. "Is this how it starts?"

"It's only a headache," she said, but her tone was flat.

He pushed hair out of his eyes. His forehead was damp. There was a distant buzz in his ears, faint and indistinct.

Distracted, he didn't notice Evelyn get up. When she suddenly appeared in his field of vision, he was startled.

"What are you doing?"

She was kneeling over him, holding a wet towel. "The old cold compress trick. It's the least I can do."

Gently, she laid the folded towel over his forehead. The buzzing grew louder and clearer. He recognized the sound. It was the jerky rattle of a hospital gurney with a faulty wheel.

"Why don't you just leave me alone?"

She was silent, her shoulders sagging.

"Why bother trying to keep me alive? I'm no use to anybody—"

"I knew who you were the moment I saw you," she interrupted. "You look just like your pictures. But that didn't stop me from helping you then, and it's not going to stop me now."

Crickets chirped in the woods. He wet his lips. "Does Martin know?"

"Maybe. I just met him a few days ago, but he acts like he knows all about me. So maybe he does."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I understand about as much as you do."

He squeezed his eyes shut. "I hoped I was getting a second chance."

"So did I," she murmured.

"What happened to me?"

"I don't remember. But they never stopped talking about you. I kept seeing you in the news, hearing about you, reading about you. They even made a couple of movies. And every so often they would drag whoever was left out for an interview, trying to answer the eternal question of _what went wrong with Jeffrey Dahmer..._ "

Guilt washed over him at the thought of his parents being harassed by reporters to the end of their days. "You've got an opinion of your own," he muttered. "Everyone does."

She shook her head. "I don't claim to have all the answers. No one does. We can't see what's going on in another person's head." She sighed. "After the fact, there are people who say they always had a feeling something was wrong. But how could that be true? If you knew all along, wouldn't you have tried to stop it from happening?"

"That's like asking why I didn't stop myself."

"But that's different—"

"No, not really. I called all the shots, and I chose to give in every time. It was my fault, and nobody else's."

For a time, they didn't say anything. The silence was filled with that awful rattle of wheels. He kept talking just to stifle it.

"Where's Martin?"

"He left."

"Where did he go?"

"To find the guys who beat you up, probably." She yawned. "There's one thing I don't understand. If we're dead, why are we here? Why aren't we in heaven or hell?"

 _The great unknown._ "They wanted to save my brain," he whispered. "For study. To look for abnormalities. But I can still think... still dream..."

"What, are you saying I'm not real? You think this is all just a hallucination?"

Silence.

"Does this feel real?" She pinched the inside of his wrist.

He recoiled, tucking his arm within the folds of the blanket.

"Hurt, didn't it? So either we're not dead, or... well, I suppose this could be purgatory. You know about purgatory?"

"It's not in the Bible."

"But it's still a possibility," She yawned again. "I need to get some sleep."

"You wouldn't need to sleep if you're dead," he pointed out.

"Exactly. It just doesn't add up." She went back to her blanket and curled up in a ball. "No use talking about something we can't hope to understand. So good night, then."

He didn't dare let his eyes close.


	6. Perchance to dream

It was quiet enough that he should have been able to hear her breathing. But as much as he strained his ears to catch the familiar sound, he couldn't hear it.

Maybe she wasn't breathing. That would certainly fit in with everything else about this place. But there were also crickets chirping in the woods outside, as loud a chorus as God ever made, and it seemed illogical, even paradoxical, that the afterlife wouldn't include human breath among its night music.

He inhaled and exhaled deliberately loud, just as a reminder that he was breathing, had been breathing ever since he woke up in his bed the previous night. Had it really been twenty-four hours already? It didn't feel like it. Twenty-four hours passing meant hunger, body odor, five o'clock shadow. He hadn't gone to the bathroom even once since he got there, and that definitely wasn't normal.

Not that he had been considered "normal" to begin with. Long before people were joking about real fingers in the Butterfingers, there was "doing a Dahmer", and long before there was a 250-page confession, there were dark thoughts lingering at the back of his mind, waiting to overtake him. And they always did...

He crawled over to Evelyn and felt the inside of her wrist, searching for a pulse. Unable to find it, he leaned forward and pressed his ear against her chest, careful to keep his touch light.

Crunching grass eclipsed the crickets. He raised his head and listened.

The footsteps stopped near the wall of one of the empty, unkempt stalls. He heard muffled voices, three of them. They sounded young, and they were obviously male.

 _Something must have happened to Martin,_ he thought bleakly. He cast a glance back at Evelyn. The flashlight she'd brought with her lay next to her head. He snatched it up and hurried to the door.

The flashlight beam winked on underneath his chin. _It's only a dying man's dream,_ he reminded himself. Once his fingers settled around the bolt, he flung it open.

He didn't believe it when he first saw them, standing there startled and squinting in the white light. But there was Derf's skinny, pale body, Mike's bushy brows, and Neil's curly hair, just as he remembered.

" _Dahmer_?" Derf lowered his arms. "What the hell are you doing way out here?"

Jeff stared at his three old friends, his face an unreadable mask, his eyes blank behind his glasses.

"I thought you were somebody else," he finally said. His voice sounded distant and flat.

"What do you mean? Who did you think we were?"

"People who want to hurt me."

"Haven't you noticed that we're dead?"

Again Jeff fell silent.

"You didn't know, then. Well, everyone has that moment when they realize..." Derf shrugged. "Ours was when a trigger-happy idiot at a gas station went nuts and opened fire. Neil here got shot right between the eyes."

"Yeah, but I couldn't feel it." Neil reached up to rub his forehead, where no sign of a wound remained. "I didn't even know what had happened until genius here started screaming 'Neil, there's a fucking hole in your head!'"

Though it was morbid, Neil's exaggerated reenactment of Mike shrieking made them laugh. Even Jeff couldn't help but smile. For a few moments, it was just like old times.

Derf's mirth died down first. He wrapped his arms around himself. "Hey, is it any warmer in there than out here?" he asked.

Martin was right—it got cold at night.

"Maybe a little bit," Jeff mumbled.

"A little bit is better than nothing."

Mike took a step forward. Before he could come any closer, Jeff blocked the way.

"What gives?" Derf asked. "You got a dead body in there or something?"

His tone was meant to be light, but Jeff felt a darkness. The warmth he had derived from the reunion turned chill.

"No, I... uh... There's a girl in there."

"A girl?" Mike echoed, his eyes wide.

Jeff's face flushed.

Derf snorted. "It's not like Dahmer's getting any action."

Neil elbowed him. "Don't be such a prick. You don't know for sure."

"Is she cute? What's her name?" Mike pressed.

"Uh, Susan." He wasn't sure why he lied.

"Well, can we see her?"

"No."

"Aw, c'mon! This is what friends are for!"

Jeff's eyes darted, looking anywhere but at them. "Don't... don't you guys know where we are?"

"Bumfuck, Michigan. Why?"

"How did you get here?"

"Well, we started out driving, but then the whole thing happened at the gas station and we had to run. We've been on foot ever since."

"And what are you doing here, Jeff?" Neil asked.

"I'm just resting here a while."

Mike sighed. "Is there really a girl, or are you just pulling our leg?"

"And even if there is a girl, unless she's naked or something, why can't we go in?" Derf persisted.

Jeff hesitated. "If I let you in, will you promise not to bother her? She's sleeping."

"Yeah, sure," Derf replied. "I just want to get out of this cold."

"Don't worry, we'll be quiet and respectful," Neil added. Mike nodded in humble agreement.

Jeff looked at each of their faces. On the grounds of their being his old friends, he felt obligated to help them. But there was no way they didn't know what he had done. They would've heard all about it in the news. They would remember, and nothing would ever be the same.

He opened the door slowly, wincing as the rusty hinges creaked. With his back to it still, he saw their expressions change, warping with surprise, before he saw what they were reacting to.

The darkness within the barn was all-encompassing, preventing them from seeing Evelyn. Instead, Lloyd Figg was standing at the center of the void, big and dumb and grinning. At his feet was a whimpering Frisky, her neck held in his enormous hands.

Jeff's heart leaped into his throat. Lloyd Figg had made a hobby out of running over small dogs with his car when they were kids.

"Get away from my dog!" he shouted, and even to him it sounded absurd. The Dahmer Fan Club showing up without warning, he could accept that, but not _this_. This could not be real. It was too nightmarish.

Figg let go of her, and with a wild shriek, he rushed at the Dahmer Fan Club.

The three boys scattered, running in different directions, their intended destination forgotten as Figg chased them across the field. No doubt they believed Dahmer had played a dirty trick on them.

But Jeff hardly noticed what was happening. Dropping to one knee, he wrapped his arms around Frisky's neck, his fingers digging into soft black fur.

He'd gotten her when he was six. By the time he was eighteen, she was rickety, sickly, old. But in his memory she would always be an energetic puppy, hopping up to lick his face, her tail wagging happily.

His face pinched against slobber. He'd taken a picture of Frisky with him to college, perhaps sensing that she wouldn't be with him much longer, but he hadn't cried when his father called to tell him she was gone—he'd already shed all his tears for himself.

Sniffling, he staggered back into the darkness of the barn. Frisky followed at his side, sticking close to him.

He wanted to wake up. It didn't matter if he opened his eyes in the black confines of a coffin, or if the only consciousness he could muster was from scattered ashes and a dissected brain. Anything was better than this.

Figg's freakish howling was growing distant. He collapsed on his makeshift bedding, clutching Frisky, and squeezed his eyes shut.

The sunlight that filtered through the gaps in the roof was dark and murky. It was early morning when he rose. Frisky had disappeared, or perhaps she had never been there to begin with.

The air had thickened. His skin felt odd—cool and damp, but stinging a little too, the way a papercut would when you covered your hands in sanitizer. After a few minutes of searching the boxes and bags Martin had left them, he found a change of clothes.

Outside, a fog had settled over the field. Martin's white truck was parked a few feet away. It was covered in dirt and something glistening and yellowish. Jeff squinted and realized it was egg yolk.

He walked around the barn twice, sweeping the road and surrounding woods, but he didn't see anyone. Trying to be quick, he went around to the side facing away from the road and stripped off the clothes he had thrown on when he woke up in Bath.

The new jeans and long-sleeved blue shirt fit better than expected. He yanked on the jeans with no problems, but buttoned the shirt halfway before realizing he had started with the wrong button, making the whole thing cockeyed.

"Nice outfit!"

His head snapped up. Martin was walking out of the woods, a bucket dangling from either hand.

"Um. Thanks," Jeff murmured, hurriedly fixing the buttons.

Martin walked to his car and set the buckets on the ground. They were full of soapy water, each with a large yellow sponge floating on the surface.

"Care to help?"

Jeff put his shoes on and silently walked over. Martin handed him a sponge.

"I noticed the door to the barn was open when I came back last night. You know anything about that?"

"No."

"I went out last night looking for trouble. Couldn't find any, so I came back here. It only took me a minute to close that door, but when I turned around my car had gotten egged."

Martin cast him a sideways glance, expecting some response. Jeff sighed.

"Some old friends of mine came to visit."

"And did you open the door for them?"

"It doesn't matter," he snapped. "I'm dead and this is all just a dream!"

"That kind of attitude won't do you any good, Jeff." Martin wiped off his side mirror. "Sure, you can't die a second time, but you certainly can suffer. So can the people around you. That's why you've got to care."

Jeff squeezed the sponge, making foam ooze out between his fingers. "I don't even know what I'm doing here. What is this place? Why are we here?"

"I have a theory that we're in Sheol."

"What?"

Martin leaned forward. "In the King James Bible, it's translated into 'hell', along with Gehenna and Hades, two other completely different places. Sheol is the grave, a place of darkness and stillness, where everyone goes to wait for judgement. Gehenna, on the other hand, is where the wicked go to suffer. And Hades, well, it's Greek, not Hebrew."

"Then I am in hell."

"Why is Evelyn in hell with you?"

"I don't know," Jeff mumbled. He broke eye contact with Martin and went back to washing the truck.

"If this is hell, it's not so bad. Actually, it's sort of funny—you don't have to eat and drink, but you still want to. And even though you're dead, you get tired and want to sleep." Martin began washing his windshield. "It doesn't make any logical sense for the dead to have sex. So why do you think there are folks like Jim running around?"

Jeff's brow furrowed. "Why are you asking me?"

"He came after you, didn't he?" Martin picked up the bucket. "What you were in life is reflected in death, but distorted and broken. The mirror is shattered."

He dumped the water on the hood, rinsing away the soap. Jeff took a step back, hesitant.

"I don't feel the same."

Martin grabbed the other bucket and walked to the rear of the truck. "Nobody does. I guess that's what happens when you boil away the physical aspect of life. Without all that, what's left of you?"

The door to the barn opened, and Evelyn stepped out. She too had changed into something else.

"A dress and sneakers—you're a funny girl, little miss."

Evelyn smiled. The dress was pale gray, with long sleeves that draped from her arms. Jeff was reminded of the wings of a moth.

"Help me load the stuff back up, and we'll head out. The faster it gets done, the faster you get to where you're going."


	7. A seedy bar in Chicago

"I _was_ married."

Jeff looked up from the ground, confused. "Huh?"

They were walking through an underground car park. Martin was ahead of them, whistling as he lead the way. It was early afternoon in Chicago, Illinois, and the garage seemed eerily deserted in spite of the scattering of empty cars filling the slots.

Beside him, Evelyn looked pensive, although the fact that she was clutching a box of crackers gave her a slightly comical air. "You asked me earlier. My husband's name was Christopher. I didn't tell you before because I couldn't remember..."

"You couldn't remember?"

"It's hard to explain. I knew him, but I couldn't put him into words. He's the reason I wanted to come to Chicago—I'm going to find him."

"Okay. Can I have one?"

She shot him a wry look, but handed him several crackers.

"Remember Level 5," Martin said. He turned around to face them, but kept walking backwards, gesturing at a concrete wall marked with the number 5. "If anything happens, we get split up or something, this is our meeting spot. There is safety in numbers, so try not to get lost."

"Where are we going now?"

"I'm headed for the closest telephone." Having reached the elevator, he pressed the button to summon it. Nothing happened. "Stairs, then."

Four flights of steps later, they stepped outside. The wind was strong even for Chicago, carrying a chill that ripped through their clothes.

Martin hurried them into a squat building about a block away. It was utterly nondescript from the outside except for a painted sign which hung over the entrance. Much of the lettering had worn away, save an "M" and a "PH".

But Jeff guessed that it was a tavern even before they went in. Members of a gang crowded around a billiard table, each one clad in identical black shirts bearing the image of a serpent eating its tail. A few drinkers sat at the bar sipping from shot glasses, their eyes glazed. The air was clogged with cigarette smoke, making the lights seem dimmer.

"Do you have a phone?" Martin asked the bartender, an elderly man with a white mustache. Wordlessly the old man pointed to a door in the back, then went back to polishing glasses.

Martin turned to his companions. "I've got a call to make. It'll be a minute, and then we'll get both of you to where you're going."

And he was gone. Jeff and Evelyn looked around, then glanced at each other. She shrugged, throwing the empty box of crackers in the trash.

"There's two empty seats at the bar."

They sat. The old bartender glanced up. His beady right eye was clouded by a whitish cataract. Without saying a word, he turned around and began pouring two drinks.

"Uh, sir—we didn't order anything."

The bartender ignored them. Jeff's brow furrowed, then he shook his head. He was past questioning the logic of the afterlife.

Turning around again, the old man set two clear glasses down in front of them, then turned to fiddle with an old radio. Static and whistling gave way to ghostly voices and mottled instruments, songs bleeding together between stations. A shrill, warped "Take a Chance On Me" drowned out a droning "Imaginary Lover".

"If the radio's broken, why not just turn it off?"

"It's the little things that count."

Jeff looked at the bartender. "What do you mean?"

"The smallest of details, the minutiae. They were right about your memory. A good memory for details. A long memory." He gestured at Evelyn. His palm was covered in wispy hair. "She has no memory. Why else would she stay with the likes of you?"

Jeff glanced at her. Evelyn's eyes were closed and she was sitting very still, like she was straining to hear something faint and delicate.

"Fine," he said quietly. "If you know so much, why don't you tell me why it's 1978 and not any other year? Why not outside of time altogether?" He clenched his jaw. "I mean, I think I know why it's this way for me. But that doesn't explain why she's here, or you, or any of these other people..." Trailing off, he held his breath for a moment, exhaled slowly, and rubbed his eyes. His other hand was damp with condensation and cramping from clutching the glass too tightly.

Funny—he didn't remember drinking half the glass. Now he dipped two fingers in it and touched his tongue. As far as he could tell, it was nothing but water. "Imaginary Lover" was making a comeback, growing louder and clearer.

"Killing reminded you you were alive, didn't it? That's why you cling to the guilt and the grief." The bartender grinned, exposing rotten teeth. "Here's another thing to jog your memory."

"Well, if it isn't Jeffrey Dahmer!"

Jeff gasped and jumped to his feet. He turned around and found himself staring into a familiar face.

Mike grinned back at him. Not Mike from high school—Mike who had stood there singing Alice Cooper as Jim beat him up. His black hair was wild as brambles, and his eyes were drooping and lethargic. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth; lazily he blew smoke from his nostrils like a slumbering dragon.

"You must be mistaken," Evelyn cut in, putting her hand on Jeff's shoulder. "He's my brother Daniel."

Jeff threw an anxious glance at Evelyn. Of course, she had no idea who she was talking to—probably thought a stranger recognizing him was just a byproduct of his notoriety in life, one that could be easily construed as a mistake.

"I didn't know you had a sister." Mike smirked. "You don't look much alike. She a sister from another mister, if you know what I mean?"

"Where are your idiot friends?" Jeff snapped.

Mike took a step forward and tilted his head to the side. "How about yours? Lot of fucking help they were. Couldn't even get you to open the door for us!"

Enraged, Jeff swung his fist at Mike's face. Mike lost his cigarette dodging the blow, but then grabbed his still-outstretched arm, twisted it, and yanked. Jeff's feet were knocked out from under him, and he landed hard on his back. Evidently, Mike had learned from their previous encounter.

Evelyn screamed for help, but Mike ignored her. Grabbing a pitcher of liquor from the bar, he dumped it on Jeff's head. Then he got down on one knee and poured what was left on the dirty, scuffed floor.

"Now, Jeff... you're going to lick it up, like a good dog."

"Go to hell," Jeff sputtered.

"Lick it!" Mike's hand clamped down on the nape of Jeff's neck, thrusting his face into the foul liquid.

Jeff grit his teeth and fought back, but Mike was stronger than he looked. Impotent rage boiled his blood even as his will faltered. Evelyn had run to get Martin, leaving him alone. The bystanders were all just sitting there watching it happen—she might as well have been screaming at the dead.

"If I do it, will you leave me alone?"

Mike laughed again, a coarse and grating sound. "I gotta have somebody else to play with, if not you. How about your 'sis'?"

"Keep her out of this."

The corners of Mike's mouth twitched. "I don't see your tongue. This floor better be clean on the count of three... two..."

Breathing hard, Jeff clenched his fists and forced himself to do it. Only the tip of his tongue touched the floor, but the grit of dirt and the bitter taste of booze filled his mouth all the same, making him gag. Retching, snickering and snide remarks came from the onlookers, the first sounds they had yet made.

"You actually did it!" Mike howled. " _You really fucking did it!_ "

The back door opened and Martin strolled out, his hands in his pockets. The atmosphere changed completely. A pungent, rancorous hatred electrified the air—and fear thickened it until it hurt to breathe.

Nowhere was the change more jarring than in Mike, who slowly rose to his feet, never taking his eyes off Martin.

"Been busy, Mike?" Martin asked, his tone level.

"Fuck off," Mike spat venomously.

"You vandalized my truck. Bit petty even for you, but did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"We were sending a message. You're out-stepping your boundaries."

"Hardly. But it's not like you ever play by the rules."

"It's barely worth the effort for this one." Jabbing a finger down at Jeff, Mike's mouth curled into a malicious grin. "Still, there's not going to be enough of him left for anybody when we're through!"

"He's not just a piece of meat, you know."

"Oh, come off it!"

Evelyn darted out from behind Martin, curved as far away from Mike as she could, and ran to help Jeff up. Absorbed in the bizarre confrontation, her presence served to snap him back to reality.

"We have to go now," she whispered anxiously.

Jeff stared at her, and it finally dawned on him what they were planning.

"No... no, he can't— _Martin!_ —"

Mike whirled around, his lips pulling back in a beastly snarl. Before he could pounce, Martin grabbed him by the shoulders and pinned his arms against his sides.

All hell broke loose. The gang at the billiard table dropped the game in unison, their identical uniforms blurring into a single mass as they charged. Those drinkers lounging at the bar roused from their torpor, leaped to their feet and joined in the fray. They swarmed around Martin, still holding a kicking and screaming Mike in place.

The noise was deafening. Wincing, Jeff covered his ears even as he started toward the horde.

Evelyn's tugging on his arm wasn't what ultimately stopped him—it was Martin. They were savagely beating their fists against him, biting and scratching, but he weathered the abuse without a sound. Towering over the throng, his face was that of an avenging archangel, triumphant, steadfast, invincible. Jeff turned away, feeling like he had witnessed something he was never meant to see.

"Come on!" he heard Evelyn shout over the din, and at last he relented.


	8. In death's dream kingdom

They fled back the way they had come, not stopping until they reached level 5 of the parking garage, and Martin's white truck.

Sweating and out of breath, Jeff clutched the edge of the cargo bed and blurted, "I shouldn't have come with you. All I've done is put you in danger."

"Jeff—"

"It's not like I have anything to offer. I'm a terrible person. I deserve everything that's come to me. You two should have saved yourselves and left me there."

Evelyn frowned. "Don't beat yourself up over it."

"I mean it! I don't deserve to have anyone lay down their life for me—no one should suffer in my place for what I've done." He looked up into her pitying face, and his frustration only grew. "I was supposed to be held accountable!"

To his surprise, her sigh was one of annoyance. "If you want me to leave you alone, fine. I can make it to Christoper's on my own. I don't need you."

Jeff didn't believe she was serious until she started walking away from him.

"Wait! Are you crazy? You can't go alone, it's dangerous!"

She looked back. "Then why have you been trying to push me away?"

"I'm sorry, Evelyn," he said. "I won't do it again."

Her eyes narrowed in anger, but there was a quiver to her voice that betrayed something sadder.

"I can tell when you're being insincere. You start talking like one of your letters."

"What were you expecting?" he snapped. "You were writing to a serial killer!"

"I don't know! I was stupid—I wanted to save you—"

She tried to say more, but her voice cracked and her eyes welled up with tears. Jeff stared at her, not knowing how to react. He didn't dare try to comfort her, and wouldn't really have known how to anyway.

Embarrassment overtook her; she quickly wiped her tears on her sleeves and turned away from him. "You're good at making it seem like you care. But you're only looking out for yourself. If it's just you and me, I'm better off alone."

"Please don't go." He could put just enough pleading desperation into his voice to get his way. But that was useless when everyone knew he was a liar—and besides, he truly was afraid of being left alone.

Evelyn ignored him and broke into a run. Taking up the chase, he managed to follow her down the long flight of stairs and out into the streets before he lost sight of her.

He reached a crossroads, skidded to a halt, and realized he had no idea which way she had gone. Turning to a woman who was passing him by on the sidewalk, he started to ask "Excuse me—"

She startled as if shaken from a trance, looked him in the eye, and recoiled. For a moment Jeff was left bewildered, then she pointed a finger at him and screamed, _"Jeffrey Dahmer!"_

He staggered away from her. The woman kept screaming, jabbing her finger at him.

More people were stopping to point and stare. One man walked up to Jeff, who stood frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, and snatched away his glasses.

"Give those back!" Jeff cried, reaching toward the man. But he backed away into the crowd, his face blurring together with the others.

They were beginning to surround him, penning him in. He looked around, half-blind, for an exit. There was an alleyway behind him. He rushed toward it, feeling the press of bodies as the crowd guessed his move, fingers clawing at him, tearing at his clothes, his hair, his skin—

But no one followed him in. He staggered, feeling along the brick walls, which seemed to grow narrower the deeper he went.

At last he emerged in an open area. There was a building on his left, so long he couldn't see the end of it, and to his right he could see a chain link fence blocking off a site that was under construction. Squinting, he could only make out vague shapes that could have been mounds of dirt. Evidently, they were just getting started.

He heard a muffled noise from somewhere beyond the fence. "Evelyn?" he called, afraid to raise his voice. The silence was eerie, the darkness foreboding, and his nearsightedness left him vulnerable.

Footsteps came up behind him. He whirled around. A figure appeared in the mouth of the passage from which he had come. His heart began to pound as soon as he saw their face.

"Hey," the jogger greeted. "You okay?"

"My... my glasses," Jeff stammered. The jogger was standing far enough away that he shouldn't have been able to see his face so clearly. He was clinging to inconsistencies, and his sanity.

"What happened to your glasses?"

"They took them."

"Who?"

"The people."

The jogger laughed. It was a pleasant sound, almost too pleasant.

"They didn't hurt you, did they?"

"Tried to," Jeff's voice sounded small and weak. He cleared his throat. "But I got away."

"Good." The jogger took a step closer. "What's your name?"

His eyes were green. Jeff couldn't remember what color the jogger's eyes had been—probably had never seen his face close enough anyway. How many times had he imagined this man unconscious or dead on his bed, fantasized about caressing and possessing him, plotted to bash his head in with a baseball bat?

He looked away before mumbling, "Jeff."

"My name's Scott." Another step closer. "Are you lost?"

Jeff glanced up sharply, suspicious of his motives, the circumstances, everything. But "Scott" was placid, passive, and unwittingly beguiling.

"I'm looking for someone. We got split up." Jeff floundered, embarrassed. "I don't know where she went."

"Was she wearing white?"

"Huh? How did you—"

Scott pointed. There was a torn strip of white fabric caught on the bottom of the fence, where the dirt had been dug away to create a pocket large enough to squeeze through. It had almost certainly come from Evelyn's dress. But why had she gone through here?

Grateful for an excuse to get away from Scott, Jeff crawled under the fence. Sharp edges dug into his back, and he heard something catch and tear. He clambered to his feet on the other side, cast around in the dark for some sign of Evelyn—and jumped when he felt hands on his back.

"Your shirt is ripped," Scott said. He had followed him over.

Jeff shrugged him off. "Don't you have some place to be?"

"I'm here for you."

A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach made Jeff more wary than ever. "What if I tell you to leave me alone?"

"That's not what you really want."

"Oh yeah?" He'd meant to sound tough and defiant, but it came out soft, almost provocative. "How do you know what I want?"

"Because I am what you want," Scott replied, holding out his hand.

Jeff started to turn away from him, but Scott pulled him in, laying his head against his chest. His heart beat steadily, soothingly. He was alive.

"Let go of me," Jeff whispered. He could feel Scott's muscles, the strength of his grip, the warmth that emanated from within.

"Admit it. You don't want me to." He kissed the top of Jeff's head. "This is all you ever wanted. Only now, at the end, do you understand..."

Jeff heard another noise, much closer than before, and in clear distress. He squirmed out of Scott's grip and called "Evelyn?"

"She's been here waiting for you all along," Scott grumbled. His voice had changed. "Ah, well. I guess you made your choice."

Jeff felt a shiver go down his spine. "What choice?" he asked, turning around.

"Scott" was gone. Jeff suspected he'd never been there to begin with. In his place stood Jim, who offered only a smirk in response to the question.

"Oh God," Jeff whispered. "I'm having another nightmare."

Jim kicked a rock before replying—in a perfect imitation of Lionel's voice—"When did it ever end, Jeff?"

" _What the hell are you?_ "

"Are you going to go to her or not?" Jim snapped.

"I can't see. You have to show her to me."

Jim snorted. "She's right in front of you."

Jeff started forward—and nearly tripped over Evelyn.

Jim was there to pull him back, but Jeff saw everything. Dark figures crouched around her, holding her down, covering her mouth. They had ripped her white dress straight down the middle.

"You've guessed a little bit about the sport we're playing, I'm sure," Jim said, his hands on Jeff's arms. "Well, here's another game." He pressed his lips to Jeff's ear. "I want, very badly, more than anything, to see you in action. So do me a favor and rape this woman."

Jeff looked at him as if he were crazy. "I can't."

"Oh, you can. I know you can. Because if you don't, they get her," he pointed to the shadowy figures, "and I get you. Do you see what I'm saying, Jeff?"

Jeff shook his head. "Why?"

"You don't have to understand _why_. You just have to follow the rules. And don't give me that dead-men-tell-no-tales crap. You know it matters."

"We can't die again, but we can suffer," Jeff murmured. "That's why I've got to care."

"More or less."

Jim nodded to one of the figures. The black-clad hand covering Evelyn's mouth came away, and the silence was pierced by her sobbing.

Jeff clenched his teeth. "I can't do it," he insisted. "I'm not interested in—in women. The whole setup, it's not fair!"

"Would you rather both be raped?"

The lesser of two evils. Maybe he could fake it—no, Evelyn would have to play along, and he doubted she could pull it off. The lesser evil. So long as he was gentle...

Jeff covered his face with his hands. He couldn't block out Evelyn's weeping.

"I don't have all day, Jeff. What's it going to be?"

"I'll do it," he blurted. "Just make them let her go."

To his surprise, Jim gestured and the shadow men released her. But she didn't try to get up or get away. Instead, trying to regain some control over her composure, Evelyn choked out her husband's name.

"Don't even think about him. He's very far away, this is the here and now. And Jeff—" Jim forced Jeff to his knees. "This is the answer to your prayers. This is your savior, your messiah—"

He reached around, and Jeff saw a glint of metal in his hand. Evelyn only gasped when he plunged the small sharp blade into her stomach, unable to scream.

"You said you wouldn't hurt her if I—"

"And none of your other victims ever suffered!" Jim laughed. "Give me a break, Jeff. I'm just trying to get you in the mood!"

 _Other victims._ Jeff stared at the red line Jim tore through her gut. Yes, he was beginning to guess the nature of this game.

"What are you, the devil?"

"You've been watching too many horror movies," Jim replied. Then, with a childish grin, he reached inside the gash, pulled out a bloody mass, and flung it in Jeff's face.

Warm wetness struck him square in the mouth. It splattered on contact, trickling down his chin and neck, staining his shirt red. He was almost too stunned to react, even as he tasted the bitterness of blood. But what got him was Evelyn, whose face was contorted in open-mouthed horror, her eyes glazed and glassy with agony.

Jeff tried to wipe the gore from his mouth, but only succeeded in smearing it. He had to put an end to this, and quickly—

"Forgetting something?" Jim tugged on Jeff's belt.

Awkwardly Jeff undid his jeans and pulled them down just enough. He crawled on top of Evelyn, taking care not to crush her, deliberately avoiding the gaping wound. She was trembling violently, almost seizing, but she didn't try to fight him off. She just closed her eyes and braced herself.

He told himself that he couldn't do it, that it was too monstrous even for him, that it wasn't his style, and she wasn't his type. But he knew that was a lie. It was her or him, and he was nothing if not self-preserving. He might even enjoy it, in some obscure, sick way.

And Evelyn...

"Evie?" Jeff whispered.

She didn't speak, but he saw her lip quiver. A faint glint shone on either side of her face, tears trailing from the corners of her eyes. The surface of her skin was cold, colorless, waxy, where her insides had been warm.

"You're wasting time," Jim warned.

He lowered his voice so that it was barely audible. "I'm... I'm not going to do it."

Evelyn opened her eyes, confused and frightened. Jeff rested his head on her chest, hiding his face from her.

Jim leaned forward. "Time's up." When Jeff didn't move, he frowned. "Oh, I see how it is. You're going to sacrifice yourself. How commendable. But it's not going to make it any easier for you."

He slid a hand under Jeff's shirt. Evelyn felt Jeff's fist clench around the frayed edge of her ripped dress, bracing himself. Desperately she fumbled around in the dirt, and miraculously, her hand closed around a fair-sized rock. Swinging her fist, she brought the blow to bear against Jim's temple.

Jim jerked and fell on his side, howling. Blood as black as motor oil trickled from his split brow.

Jeff sat up, expecting the shadowy henchmen to return. But there was no sign of them—the site was deserted.

Jim hissed in pain, clutching at his head. Sensing Jeff's eyes upon him, he raised his gaze and growled, "Never say you didn't want it!"

Before he could ask what he meant, Jim vanished like a mirage. No puff of smoke, no dissolving to dust or crumbling to ashes—he was simply gone.

Jeff was so awash in confused relief, he didn't notice Evelyn until she started hitting his chest and shoulders.

"You idiot! What the hell were you thinking!" Suddenly she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, sobbing. "I love you too!"


	9. An empty train station

Where they walked, no one recognized Jeff, although a few people stared at Evelyn as she held her dirty, ripped dress closed with her folded arms.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked when they reached an empty street corner.

"Yeah," he answered.

"I... I got him in time?"

"Yeah, you got him in time."

"Bastard," she muttered, swiping hair from her face. "Thinks he can control people..." Then, seeming to realize who she was talking to, her face flushed red. "No offense."

How strange she was. There was something about her that reminded him of the Florida beach, where he had tried to escape from his past mistakes and sins. Maybe it was the dusting of freckles across her nose, like grains of sand, or the blue in her eyes, like the sea reflecting the sky.

She noticed him staring. "What is it?"

"I never thought I'd get to meet you in person."

"Well, you wouldn't let me visit you."

"My visiting list was full."

"Yeah, right."

"I was afraid you'd gotten the wrong idea about me."

She turned towards him. "I'm not stupid, you know. I was never 'in love' with you. Your letters were sappy. You laid it on way too thick. I knew you just wanted money."

"Not just money," he murmured. "I was lonely. I needed someone to talk to about something other than what I did, but I knew no one wanted to just have a simple conversation with me. So I pretended I was someone I'm not." He sighed. "My lying always did more bad than good."

"Well, you don't have to lie to anyone anymore," she pointed out. "Back there, when I said I loved you, I really should've just said thank you."

"Did you mean it?"

"You surprised me. I really thought you were going to do it."

"I thought so, too."

"Then why didn't you?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "It wasn't like a voice told me no, or anything corny like that. I certainly had it in me to do it. I just... didn't. It's hard to explain."

"You had to have a reason."

He turned to face her, walking backwards down the sidewalk. "I was compelled by otherworldly forces beyond my control which made me act against my nature, I guess. Is that a good enough reason?"

"Maybe if you were insane," she said. "But the jury decided you weren't. I'd love to believe you had a change of heart, though."

For a few moments they were quiet.

"You never answered my question," Jeff remarked. "Did you mean what you said?"

Her brow furrowed in annoyance, but she smiled. "Don't you go getting the wrong idea about me. I'm a married woman."

"What was it Martin called us? Brother and sister?"

"Brother and sister, Luke and Leia, anima and animus, so on and so forth." She waved her hand. "Lots of words. We're nearly there."

The sky was moonless, starless, cloudless, and the neighborhood around them was dark. She grabbed his hand to guide him, and he didn't shrug off her grasp.

At last, they reached a small brown townhouse fenced in by a brick wall covered in overgrown ivy. There was a warm yellow light shining through the downstairs window.

He let go of her hand. She turned to him.

"You're leaving me now?"

"This is where you wanted to go, right?" he replied, confused by her reaction. He was used to people hurrying to get rid of him. "What else am I supposed to do?"

She pursed her lips. "It just seems a little anticlimactic."

Silence followed. Jeff looked around, his fingers twitching at his sides, then crossed his arms over his chest. "Why are you just standing around? Why don't you go in there and see your husband?"

"I don't know." She smiled falsely, chewing her lip. "I'm a little nervous and afraid. Why do you care?"

"Well, don't start crying," he said. "You're going to be okay."

She laughed, a short, muffled snort that stuttered and stopped abruptly, leaving her forlorn.

He found that he couldn't stand it anymore. _I'll just walk away,_ he thought. _Leave her behind. She's where she needs to be. I've got to get going on my own way._

But instead he unfolded his arms, reached out and pulled her in.

"Sorry I'm no good at this stuff," he said.

Evelyn quietly returned the embrace. He'd done more than enough already.

He hugged her close once more before letting go. "Bye, Evie," he said, backing away onto the sidewalk.

She raised a hand to wave to him. "Bye, Jeff."

There was little else for him to do but keep going in the direction they had been headed. He'd been to Chicago before, but didn't know the city as well as others. The best he could hope for was that he would either reach a recognizable landmark, or find someone willing to help.

"Jeff!" someone called.

He stopped and looked around for the source of the voice. There were a few cars parked nearby, but the houses were still dark and there were no signs of life.

 _"Jeff!"_

Familiarity gnawed at his memory, but he knew it couldn't possibly be true. Swallowing his fear and suspicion, he asked, "Who's there?"

"It's me!"

The voice was right behind him. He whirled around, eyes wide, his heart pounding.

It was his brother David as he had been when he was young, a dark-haired child with an open, friendly face and a winning smile. Jeff's shock hardened into cold hatred and disbelief. Without another word, he turned and kept walking.

"Wait!" David exclaimed, scurrying after him. He had no shoes; his bare feet slapped against the pavement. "Where are you going?"

He ignored the boy's cries, crossing the street at a brisk pace. David struggled to keep up.

"Come on, wait for me!" Little notes of trembling fear leaked into his voice, as if tailored to weigh on what remained of Jeff's conscience. "Jeff, please! I don't know what to do. I'm scared..."

Jeff was practically running by then, trying to escape the cries of his baby brother. There was no way it could possibly be the real David. David was a saint compared to him. He never would have wound up in a place like this...

He slowed, panting slightly. Behind him, he could hear soft whimpering, forcibly stifled, but clearly in pain. Slowly, agonizingly, Jeff turned around.

There was a trail of bloody footprints leading back the way they had come, and David was trying not to cry, because he always wanted to be brave.

"Why aren't you wearing anything on your feet?" Jeff asked, still breathless. "Where are your shoes?"

"I don't know," was the choked response from David's weeping mouth. "I want to go home."

Jeff shut his eyes, grit his teeth, and picked up the boy. David clung to him, his sobs beginning to quiet as the pain dulled.

The rumble of an engine forced Jeff back to reality. Martin's white truck drove up to the curb, and Martin's head leaned out the open window. His baseball cap was missing, exposing a head of shaggy long hair of a common and yet indescribable mousy color.

"I believe I owe you a train ticket," he said. Then, cocking his head to the side, he asked, "Whatcha doing?"

Jeff realized his arms were holding nothing but empty air.

It must have been incredibly late, because there was no one at the train station. The softest sounds were amplified by the endless tunnels of silence, and the lights constantly flickered as trains sucked the electricity whenever they passed.

Jeff hung back a few feet as Martin bought his ticket, looking at the posters on the walls, most of them advertisements for products. One had a picture of a smiling President Carter; next to it an anti-drug PSA read _"Coming DOWN from a high is HELL."_

"Phone call for Jeff Dahmer."

Jeff blinked. A tired-looking woman was holding out a telephone, the tightly curled wire snaking out from behind the glass.

He looked at Martin, but he was busy and didn't seem to notice. Jeff took the phone and raised it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Jeff?"

His eyes widened. "Mom?"

"Jeff, where are you?"

"I'm at the train station."

"Lionel told me what happened. I don't care what you are or what you did. Whatever it is, I accept it. I only want you to be happy."

Though he wanted desperately to believe, he knew it was all a trick. "You're not my mother!" he shouted, his voice hollow and cracking. "My mother never cared about making me happy!"

"Oh Jeff, honey, that's not true," Joyce crooned. "Lionel was always disappointed in you, but I love you, Jeff, just the way you are."

He felt a tear trickle down his nose, stinging salt and bitter brine. After everything he'd been through, only now did he begin to cry.

"All I ever did was hurt you," he whispered.

"How could I not love you? You were my baby. Please come home, Jeff. We can be a family again."

The tears fell in a steady stream, trickling down his face. His throat had closed, silencing him, except for small strangled noises, because it hurt to breathe.

Martin pried the phone from his hand. "C'mon. You've got a train to catch."

But the levee had broken, and he couldn't hold back the flood even if he tried. Jeff hid his face, a grotesque mask of grief, and stood frozen in place, rooted to the ground.

Air rushed past as the train entered the station, ruffling hair and clothes and making the lights flicker. Pistons hissed as the doors slid open, waiting.

Martin grabbed Jeff's arm. Jeff pulled back.

"I can't do it," he sobbed. "I won't go."

"Then what will you do?"

"I want to go back—"

Back to his friends who he could make laugh, if nothing else, and to a house with both parents. Back to his childhood, when he waited for his father to come home, and the nighthawk he'd helped save would come at a whistle. Back to the cradle, when he was nothing but possibilities, and death was but a dream.

"It's too late for that." Martin shook his head. "Don't give up on me now, kid."

Like a petulant child, Jeff dug his heels in, but Martin was stronger and infinitely patient. He half-dragged, half-carried Jeff across the platform and through the automatic doors. Finally, he deposited him in a seat by the window.

"Please don't leave me here all alone," Jeff pleaded.

"No can do, Jeff. Where you're going, I can't follow." Martin glanced back out the doors. "Besides, somebody's got to keep Sam from getting to you."

 _Sam._ Sam, who had reminded him of David from the start. The last remaining pursuer, the final piece of the puzzle, the most enigmatic and crafty of the three boys.

Martin reached into his pocket.

"Here—you'll be needing these."

Blinded by tears, Jeff hardly saw what it was that he had dropped into his lap. His fingers closed around his glasses, won back from whatever forces had sought to render him helpless.

"Martin—" But it was too late. The doors slid shut again, and the train started to move.


	10. Milwaukee, Wisconsin

The bedsheets he awoke swathed in had a flower print design. Once he noticed that, the rest clicked into place.

He bolted upright, terrified. Hands swept through the blankets, whipping them back with a sharp snap of fabric. They were clean, probably just changed recently.

 _Hadn't there been blood stains?_ His mind raced, confusion and fear mingling into poison. Waking up alone in Bath, that had made sense. Waking up here, in his apartment, what did it mean? Only one way to find out...

There was no smell of death, no foul rotten ambiance, and yet the thought of going into the bathroom terrified him. Still, he had to be sure, just as he had checked the crawlspace, car, and drainage tunnel before.

The fluorescent light flickered when he flipped the switch, casting a sickly glow upon the off-white walls. He looked into the mirror and found tired eyes staring back at him.

He touched his face, watching his reflection do the same. Yes, it was him. Him at age thirty, drained dry and corrupted to the core, tired eyes bloodshot, a bit of scruff around his drooping mouth.

Before he left the bathroom, he swept aside the shower curtain. Nothing.

He opened the closet and dug through cardboard boxes, locked wooden chests. Everything was gone. The shelves were all empty. Empty, empty...

All of it was gone. All his work, all his keepsakes, his totems. He turned around, looking dimly for the black table. But there was no altar to his ugly personal deities, and his demons were silent.

The city was too quiet. Everything was too quiet. The silence seemed loud, it was so noticeable, like a film over his senses. He went to the window, opened it, and couldn't even hear the wind.

He couldn't breathe. There was no air, and no need to breathe anymore. No need, no need. Why bother? Why—

Had he slipped? Was he pushed? Did he jump? A heartbeat passed, and he was out the window. But he didn't fall. He floated, higher and higher, up into the blue and into endless open space.

There was no need to breathe, and yet he still gasped for air he knew wasn't there, his hands grasping at nothingness. He reached down toward the earth, clinging to life. There was no room for ego here, no room for his guilt and pain and unhappiness.

 _"Without all that, what's left?"_ Martin's words came back to haunt him as he hurtled through the void. Time had disappeared.

And then, he landed again. The impact should have shaken the bones from his body, but his first contact was gentle. Stretching out, he felt soft grass against his palms.

His vision swam, flickering. There were doctors. Doctors, yes. My God, was he still alive? His brain was pulp in a caved-in skull, and yet he was alive.

But he was in pain, a wretched agony that begged to be silenced. He turned away from it, wanting to run and hide.

There was the grass again, brushing his fingers.

He rolled over on his back and looked up at the sky. The black void was filled to the brim with stars, planets, colorful gases like painted clouds. These things he had seen in science books, washed out and faded photographs, depleted by light-years and cheap ink.

He reached up and touched them. Heat and light that should have burned and blinded him was no harsher than a lightbulb.

There was music, too. Or the essence of music. He didn't quite know what to make of it, and he didn't care.

There was no more time to think of compulsions, of murder, of sex and viscera and hunger. No time to spend looking back, wishing he hadn't, wanting to stop, wanting more, always guilty. He was out of time. He was free.

He took a bus to West Allis, passing familiar landmarks. They took him through his old neighborhood. The Oxford Apartments had been demolished, leaving behind an empty lot of soft-looking green grass.

It didn't take long. He got out no more than a block away from his grandma's house and walked. Unlike Chicago, the neighborhood was far from deserted. He heard voices and laughter.

Even with these friendly, comforting sights and sounds, he hurried to reach the house. It looked the way it did when he lived there, strong and sturdy, flanked by his grandmother's garden.

He wondered if the cat would be there, then wondered why he was still standing on the sidewalk, afraid to go up to the door. This was what Evelyn had felt, but she was not there to hold him as he had done to her. He was alone.

Finally, he took a step forward, crossing over from the sidewalk to the lawn, and then another step, and another, until he was on the porch, reaching his fist up to knock on the door.

It wasn't his grandma who answered.

"Jeff!" his grandfather exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. "Haven't seen you in a while. You've grown up!"

All the air left Jeff's lungs, and for several aching moments he couldn't speak. Herbert Dahmer guessed what was the matter and pulled him into a hug. When Jeff still didn't respond, his grandfather asked, "What's wrong?"

He'd reached the end of his journey, and yet Jeff was afraid. His grandfather felt real, looked the way he remembered, but he had learned not to trust what he saw and felt.

"Is... Is Grandma here?" he asked softly.

From over Herbert's shoulder, he saw her walk out of the kitchen.

His grandfather released him so he could run to her arms. He remembered Christmas Eve in prison, how he couldn't sleep, couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Lionel had called in the morning to tell him she had died in the night. For what seemed an eternity, he clung to her as if she were an apparition, liable to disappear at any moment.

"I'm not going anywhere, Jeff," she said soothingly, rubbing his back. Her hands were young again.

"Lionel's supposed to be coming soon," his grandfather added. "David and his family, too."

Jeff nodded silently, but he still wasn't ready to let go of her yet. His disbelief would pass in time.

His grandfather smiled to himself, turned around, and shut the door.


End file.
